“Man, what they got going on in there?” McMurphy asks Harding.
“In there? Why, that’s right, isn’t it? You haven’t had the pleasure. Pity. An experience no human should be without.” Harding laces his fingers behind his neck and leans back to look at the door. “That’s the Shock Shop I was telling you about some time back, my friend, the EST, Electro-Shock Therapy. Those fortunate souls in there are being given a free trip to the moon. No, on second thought, it isn’t completely free. You pay for the service with brain cells instead of money, and everyone has simply billions of brain cells on deposit. You won’t miss a few.”
He frowns at the one lone man left on the bench. “Not a very large clientele today, it seems, nothing like the crowds of yesteryear. But then,
c’est la vie
, fads come and go. And I’m afraid we are witnessing the sunset of EST. Our dear head nurse is one of the few with the heart to stand up for a grand old Faulknerian tradition in the treatment of the rejects of sanity: Brain Burning.”
The door opens. A Gurney comes whirring out, nobody pushing it, takes the corner on two wheels and disappears smoking up the hall. McMurphy watches them take the last guy in and close the door.
“What they do is”—McMurphy listens a moment—“take some bird in there and shoot
electricity
through his skull?”
“That’s a concise way of putting it.”
“What the hell
for?”
“Why, the patient’s good, of course. Everything done here is for the patient’s good. You may sometimes get the impression, having lived only on our ward, that the hospital is a vast efficient mechanism that would function quite well if the patient were not imposed on it, but that’s not true. EST isn’t always used for punitive measures, as our nurse uses it, and it isn’t pure sadism on the staff’s part, either. A number of supposed Irrecoverables were brought back into contact with shock, just as a number were helped with lobotomy and leucotomy. Shock treatment has some advantages; it’s cheap, quick, entirely painless. It simply induces a seizure.”
“What a life,” Sefelt moans. “Give some of us pills to stop a fit, give the rest shock to start one.”
Harding leans forward to explain it to McMurphy. “Here’s how it came about: two psychiatrists were visiting a slaughterhouse, for God knows what perverse reason, and were watching cattle being killed by a blow between the eyes with a sledgehammer. They noticed that not all of the cattle were killed, that some would fall to the floor in a state that greatly resembled an epileptic convulsion. ‘Ah,
zo
,’ the first doctor says. ‘Ziz is exactly vot ve need for our patients—zee induced
fit!’
His colleague agreed, of course. It was known that men coming out of an epileptic convulsion were inclined to be calmer and more peaceful for a time, and that violent cases completely out of contact were able to carry on rational conversations after a convulsion. No one knew why; they still don’t. But it was obvious that if a seizure could be induced in non-epileptics, great benefits might result. And here, before them, stood a man inducing seizures every so often with remarkable aplomb.”
Scanlon says he thought the guy used a hammer instead of a bomb, but Harding says he will ignore that completely, and he goes ahead with the explanation. “A hammer
is
what the butcher used. And it was here that the colleague had some reservations. After all, a man wasn’t a cow. Who knows when the hammer might slip and break a nose? Even knock out a mouthful of teeth? Then where would they be, with the high cost of dental work? If they were going to knock a man in the head, they needed to use something surer and more accurate than a hammer; they finally settled on electricity.”
“Jesus, didn’t they think it might do some damage? Didn’t the public raise Cain about it?”
“I don’t think you fully understand the public, my friend; in this country, when something is out of order, then the quickest way to get it fixed is the best way.”
McMurphy shakes his head. “Hoo-
wee!
Electricity through the head. Man, that’s like electrocuting a guy for murder.”
“The reasons for both activities are much more closely related than you might think; they are both cures.”
“And you say it don’t
hurt?”
“I personally guarantee it. Completely painless. One flash and you’re unconscious immediately. No gas, no needle, no sledgehammer. Absolutely painless. The thing is, no one ever wants another one. You… change. You forget things. It’s as if”—he presses his hands against his temples, shutting his eyes—“it’s as if the jolt sets off a wild carnival wheel of images, emotions, memories. These wheels, you’ve seen them; the barker takes your bet and pushes a button.
Chang!
With light and sound and numbers round and round in a whirlwind, and maybe you win with what you end up with and maybe you lose and have to play again. Pay the man for another spin, son, pay the man.”
“Take it easy, Harding.”
The door opens and the Gurney comes back out with the guy under a sheet, and the technicians go out for coffee. McMurphy runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t seem able to get all this stuff that’s happening straight in my mind.”
“What’s that? This shock treatment?”
“Yeah. No, not just that. All this…” He waves his hand in a circle. “All these things going on.”
Harding’s hand touches McMurphy’s knee. “Put your troubled mind at ease, my friend. In all likelihood you needn’t concern yourself with EST. It’s almost out of vogue and only used in the extreme cases nothing else seems to reach, like lobotomy.”
“Now lobotomy, that’s chopping away part of the brain?”
“You’re right again. You’re becoming very sophisticated in the jargon. Yes; chopping away the brain. Frontal-lobe castration. I guess if she can’t cut below the belt she’ll do it above the eyes.”
“You mean Ratched.”
“I do indeed.”
“I didn’t think the nurse had the say—so on this kind of thing.”
“She does indeed.”
McMurphy acts like he’s glad to get off talking about shock and lobotomy and get back to talking about the Big Nurse. He asks Harding what he figures is wrong with her. Harding and Scanlon and some of the others have all kinds of ideas. They talk for a while about whether she’s the root of all the trouble here or not, and Harding says she’s the root of most of it. Most of the other guys think so too, but McMurphy isn’t so sure any more. He says he thought so at one time but now he don’t know. He says he don’t think getting her out of the way would really make much difference; he says that there’s something bigger making all this mess and goes on to try to say what he thinks it is. He finally gives up when he can’t explain it.
McMurphy doesn’t know it, but he’s onto what I realized a long time back, that it’s not just the Big Nurse by herself, but it’s the whole Combine, the nation-wide Combine that’s the really big force, and the nurse is just a high-ranking official for them.
The guys don’t agree with McMurphy. They say they
know
what the trouble with things is, then get in an argument about that. They argue till McMurphy interrupts them.
“Hell’s bells, listen at you,” McMurphy says. “All I hear is gripe, gripe, gripe. About the nurse or the staff or the hospital. Scanlon wants to bomb the whole outfit. Sefelt blames the drugs. Fredrickson blames his family trouble. Well, you’re all just passing the buck.”
He says that the Big Nurse is just a bitter, icy-hearted old woman, and all this business trying to get him to lock horns with her is a lot of bull—wouldn’t do anybody any good, especially him. Getting shut of her wouldn’t be getting shut of the real deep-down hang-up that’s causing the gripes.
“You think not?” Harding says. “Then since you are suddenly so lucid on the problem of mental health, what
is
this trouble? What
is
this deep-down hang-up, as you so cleverly put it.”
“I tell you, man, I don’t know. I never seen the beat of it.” He sits still for a minute, listening to the hum from the X-ray room; then he says, “But if it was no more’n you say, if it was, say, just this old nurse and her sex worries, then the solution to all your problems would be to just throw her down and solve her worries, wouldn’t it?”
Scanlon claps his hands. “Hot damn! That’s it. You’re nominated, Mack, you’re just the stud to handle the job.”
“Not me. No sir. You got the wrong boy.”
“Why not? I thought you’s the super-stud with all that whambam.”
“Scanlon, buddy, I plan to stay as clear of that old buzzard as I possibly can.”
“So I’ve been noticing,” Harding says, smiling. “What’s happened between the two of you? You had her on the ropes for a period there; then you let up. A sudden compassion for our angel of mercy?”
“No; I found out a few things, that’s why. Asked around some different places. I found out why you guys all kiss her ass so much and bow and scrape and let her walk all over you. I got wise to what you were using me for.”
“Oh? That’s interesting.”
“You’re blamed right it’s interesting. It’s interesting to me that you bums didn’t tell me what a risk I was running, twisting her tail that way. Just because I don’t like her ain’t a sign I’m gonna bug her into adding another year or so to my sentence. You got to swallow your pride sometimes and keep an eye out for old Number One.”
“Why, friends, you don’t suppose there’s anything to this rumor that our Mr. McMurphy has conformed to policy merely to aid his chances of an early release?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Harding. Why didn’t you tell me she could keep me committed in here till she’s good and ready to turn me loose?”
“Why, I had
forgotten
you were committed.” Harding’s face folds in the middle over his grin. “Yes. You’re becoming sly. Just like the rest of us.”
“You damn betcha I’m becoming sly. Why should it be me goes to bat at these meetings over these piddling little gripes about keeping the dorm door open and about cigarettes in the Nurses’ Station? I couldn’t figure it at first, why you guys were coming to me like I was some kind of savior. Then I just happened to find out about the way the nurses have the big say as to who gets discharged and who doesn’t. And I got wise awful damned fast. I said, ‘Why, those slippery bastards have conned me, snowed me into holding their bag. If that don’t beat all, conned ol’ R. P. McMurphy.’ “ He tips his head back and grins at the line of us on the bench. “Well, I don’t mean nothing personal, you understand, buddies, but screw that noise. I want out of here just as much as the rest of you. I got just as much to lose hassling that old buzzard as
you
do.”
He grins and winks down his nose and digs Harding in the ribs with his thumb, like he’s finished with the whole thing but no hard feelings, when Harding says something else.
“No. You’ve got more to lose than I do, my friend.”
Harding’s grinning again, looking with that skitterish sideways look of a jumpy mare, a dipping, rearing motion of the head. Everybody moves down a place. Martini comes away from the X-ray screen, buttoning his shirt and muttering, “I wouldn’t of believed it if I hadn’t saw it,” and Billy Bibbit goes to the black glass to take Martini’s place.
“You have more to lose than I do,” Harding says again. “I’m voluntary. I’m not committed.”
McMurphy doesn’t say a word. He’s got that same puzzled look on his face like there’s something isn’t right, something he can’t put his finger on. He just sits there looking at Harding, and Harding’s rearing smile fades and he goes to fidgeting around from McMurphy staring at him so funny. He swallows and says, “As a matter of fact, there are only a few men on the ward who
are
committed. Only Scanlon and—well, I guess some of the Chronics. And you. Not many commitments in the whole hospital. No, not many at all.”
Then he stops, his voice dribbling away under McMurphy’s eyes. After a bit of silence McMurphy says softly, “Are you bullshitting me?” Harding shakes his head. He looks frightened. McMurphy stands up in the hall and says, “Are you guys
bullshitting
me!”
Nobody’ll say anything. McMurphy walks up and down in front of that bench, running his hand around in that thick hair. He walks all the way to the back of the line, then all the way to the front, to the X-ray machine. It hisses and spits at him.
“You, Billy—you
must
be committed, for Christsakes!”
Billy’s got his back to us, his chin up on the black screen, standing on tiptoe. No, he says into the machinery.
“Then
why? Why?
You’re just a young guy! You oughta be out running around in a convertible, bird-dogging girls. All of this”—he sweeps his hand around him again—”why do you stand for it?”
Billy doesn’t say anything, and McMurphy turns from him to another couple of guys.
“Tell me why. You gripe, you bitch for
weeks
on end about how you can’t stand this place, can’t stand the nurse or anything about her, and all the time you ain’t committed. I can understand it with some of those old guys on the ward. They’re
nuts
. But you, you’re not exactly the everyday man on the street, but you’re not
nuts
.”
They don’t argue with him. He moves on to Sefelt.
“Sefelt, what about you? There’s nothing wrong with you but you have fits. Hell, I had an uncle who threw conniptions twice as bad as yours and saw visions from the Devil to boot, but he didn’t lock himself in the nuthouse. You could get along outside if you had the guts—”
“Sure!” It’s Billy, turned from the screen, his face boiling tears. “Sure!” he screams again. “If we had the g-guts! I could go outside to-today, if I had the guts. My m-m-mother is a good friend of M-Miss Ratched, and I could get an AMA signed this afternoon, if I had the guts!”
He jerks his shirt up from the bench and tries to pull it on, but he’s shaking too hard. Finally he slings it from him and turns back to McMurphy.